A Monument To Your Sins
by goodluckdetective
Summary: Part 3 of Talon AU: Talon AU: The sight was enough to cause Bruce to lash out. He may have lost a parent that night, but one of his captors had lost an eye. He would have lost his life too given the blood loss if not for the serum. Alfred's loss and the eye had been his first two lessons in his introduction to the Court. All men were mortal. Talons were not men


The night after his parents died, Bruce found a knife underneath his pillow.

He didn't notice it the night before. His room, while usually comforting, had been avoided in those first twenty four hours. He'd clung to Alfred's side for every second, curling up on the couch in his room instead of resting in his bed, following him around like a small shadow in case he too decided to disappear. The task of getting him to sleep in his own room was no easy one; Alfred had to promise to sleep in the guest room next door for Bruce to even close his eyes. Looking back on it, the tactic had only worked because from that distance, Bruce could still hear Alfred snore.

So no, he didn't notice the knife. Not until he woke up screaming, flailing his hands about, only to cut his palm against the sharp metal.

Bruce hissed, his frantic movements stopping at once to clutch his hand to his chest. In the darkness, he couldn't see the wound, and after fumbling a bit with his good hand, he managed to get the lights on. The cut on his hand wasn't deep, just a scratch really, small drops of blood leaking from the wound onto his bed spread.

"What-" Bruce looked at his bed, wrapping his hand up in his t-shirt to stop more blood from getting on his sheets. He spotted the knife on the floor, blood still coating the edges of the blade. With trembling hands, he reached down to pick it up by the handle.

It was the weirdest knife he'd ever seen. It wasn't shaped like the ones they used in the kitchen, no this one was shorter and sharper, the handle barely big enough to hold even with his small hands. The blade itself was sharpest near the tip, more like a dagger than a knife, and when Bruce rotated it, the metal gleamed even in the terrible lighting of his room. Whoever put this here had polished it.

He turned his attention to the crest on the handle. It was pretty actually, a small owl's face engraved into the metal. Bruce wondered if it was supposed to be a gift from his parents; they were the only ones who ever put anything under his pillow. Though they'd never left anything besides a quarter-

"Master Bruce!" The door flew open and Bruce stashed the knife behind him. Alfred was standing in the doorway, dressed his his ridiculous pajamas, looking rather alarmed. He took a look at Bruce, and Bruce was at once thankful that Alfred couldn't see the blood given the dark navy of his bed sheets. He didn't want Alfred to worry. "Are you okay?"

"I-' Bruce glanced down at his hand before looking back at Alfred. Even at his young age, Bruce could tell the man was exhausted. In the last 48 hours, he'd barely slept, too busy talking to the cops and taking care of Bruce. His nerves had to be frayed. And his father had always told him to be considerate. This could wait; he wasn't a baby. "I just had a bad dream."

Alfred's face softened. "Would you like me to stay, Master Bruce? There are plenty of books in the library we have yet to read."

Bruce shook his head. If Alfred stayed, he'd notice Bruce managed to hurt himself. "I'm okay. Thanks, Alfred."

Alfred smiled at him and for a second, Bruce felt like everything was normal. "Alright, Master Bruce. But I'm right here if you need me." He shut the door softly behind him and Bruce waited a few more seconds before pulling out the knife.

He stared at it for a few seconds. He'd have to look into how it got there, who could have put it under his pillow. He could look into the staff a little, he had the logs. There was no need to tell Alfred; it'd make him worried.

Bruce tucked the knife into the crack between his bed and the wall, blade down. In a few minutes he was back asleep. He would spend the next month trying to find the source of the blade, keeping the entire investigation a secret from Alfred. Alfred who tried to make him smile, and worked so desperately to keep him safe.

Years later, Bruce would have two regrets. The first was never telling Alfred about the knife. The second was never having the chance to thank him.

* * *

They sent three Talons for him.

When he was older, the number would strike him as comical. They rarely sent out more than one Talon for any assassination; sending out three to kidnap a little boy seemed excessive. Bruce could remember each Talon perfectly, the dents in their armor, the bullet holes in the tallest ones chest, the cracked goggles on the only woman of the group. The picture of them opening the closet he had hid in, gloves streaked with blood, would haunt half of his nightmares.

The other half was reserved for dreams of Alfred. Bruce hadn't seen him put up a fight, no, he'd woken up just in time to hear the man scream for him to run. He'd witnessed Alfred's fight with the Talon's only through noises, harsh grunts, wordless screams, the sound of a shotgun firing six times before it clattered to the floor.

When the Talons opened the closet door, he knew Alfred was dead. If the man was alive, they would have never gotten to Bruce. But he had hoped. Hoped that the his assumptions were wrong.

In retrospect, maybe that was why the Talon's made sure to walk past Alfred's body as they carried him out. Bruce saw the slumped form of of his butler ( _his friend, his father_ ) clearly, took in the five sharp knives in his chest, recognized them as the same that he'd found under his pillow. He'd taken in the blank look in Alfred's eyes, his parted mouth like he was about to scream Bruce's name.

The sight was enough to cause Bruce to lash out. He may have lost a parent that night, but one of his captors had lost an eye. He would have lost his life too given the blood loss if not for the serum. Alfred's loss and the eye had been his first two lessons in his introduction to the Court.

All men were mortal.

Talons were not men.

* * *

They trained him like they'd train a dog.

Bruce remembered it. The darkness. The injections of serum. The locked rooms, the beatings, the knives against his throat as a threat _to behave_. He cried for the first month, knees huddled to his chest, mourning a family slaughtered in front of him. He cried for the innocence he never knew he had. He cried from the bruises and the pain, and the blood they wanted him to draw from others.

He learned the rules within a month. He stopped crying. He took the serum and the tooth implant without the complaint. He cloaked himself in the darkness like a security blanket. He followed rules, played with knives, thought nothing of slamming another Talon in training into the ground and pressing his nails against their throat.

At the age of fourteen, when he plunged a knife into the heart of a misbehaving politician, Bruce would become one of their most requested Talon's of record.

To the Court, Bruce was an ideal recruit. Smart, sly and skilled, Bruce jumped to the top of his roster, impressing both his trainers and his fellow peers. He was going to be their greatest weapon.

The Court was foolish. Human weapons are different from blades and guns. They have minds. They evolve. They grow.

Anyone can teach a man to kill. But no one can predict where that man will aim.

* * *

When Bruce turned 17, they were going to freeze him.

They called him to the council for it, made him kneel in front of them on their dirt covered ground. The council room was shaped like a colosseum, the seats perched up high above the ground floor, the most prominent members sitting in mockerys of a throne, owls engraved on the arm rests. Bruce had always hated that room; it reminded him of the history books Alfred had once given him, the Roman coliseums where animals fought to the death for the rich's entertainment.

Bruce was no animal. He knew who the real prey was here. And it wasn't the man with serum in his veins and revenge in his heart.

"It's a great honor," the leader of the council said. His mask was on, and while there was no voice modification in those masks, the man spoke in a timber and pitch that seemed outright unnatural. "You will be housed with our greatest warriors. You will only be selected for the most important of our missions. No longer will you be tasked with disposing of lives not worthy of your skills."

Bruce kept his face blank. Showing that he was upset would give him away, faking excitement would rouse their suspicions. He kept his voice a monotone. Unlike some of the Talons, he'd been given the luxury to speak. Perhaps because he was so good with his words. "Would it not be more useful to keep me active? I have no problems with completing menial tasks as long as they are for the Court's honor."

The leader of the council leaned forward. With their masks, tone had to be expressed through body language and voice. Facial expressions of the Court were hidden from unworthy eyes. Bruce knew enough about the council leader to understand that him leaning forward was a sign of force. This was not a request; it was a demand. "This is for your honor, Talon. To refuse it would be to dishonor the Court's. Do you wish to deny such an opportunity at the cost of our legacy?"

Yes, he did. He wanted to drag the Court's name through the mud, he wanted spread their blood through the streets and laugh at each member fell from their perch. He wanted to burn the place to the ground. For his parents. For Alfred. For the boys and girls like him who'd been forced to wear knives like claws and their suits like a second skin.

"No, I would not." It was painful for him to say, but years of deception made his tone sound authentic. "May I ask when I should expect this procedure?"

"The end of the month." Bruce wished he was wearing his mask so he could scowl. That was going to speed up his time frame. He'd planned on executing his plot by the end of the year. He was going to have to rush his prep work.

He bowed low. Low enough that his lips could touch the ground and he could kiss the dirt. The council would be tasting it soon enough. "Thank you. Am I dismissed?"

"Yes, Talon."

Bruce left them at that with dust on his lips and a plan in his heart.

* * *

Killing them all was shockingly simple.

It was likely because they weren't prepared for it. In their hubris, they'd never contemplated the idea that one of their Talon's would rebel, that they turn on them and eat the Court alive. They were so convinced that they'd tamed their pet assassins, that they had utter control.

Bruce thought they were idiots. Everyone knew you couldn't tame an owl.

The Court didn't pose many problems. They had little survival skills, little ways to protect themselves. When one of them managed to land a single hit on Bruce, he'd already slaughtered the whole bunch.

His other Talon's posed some problems, too loyal, too attached to the idea of honor and sacrifice. Hurting them was painful when they wouldn't listen to his pleas, freezing them with the rest of the ancient warriors made Bruce's heart ache. They were all like him once. They shouldn't be relegated to living corpses.

He'd rehabilitate them, eventually. That was the goal. But he'd have to do some housekeeping first. He buried the Court's bodies in the depths of the maze they once made him travel during training. The council leaders he deposited in the dirt of the colosseum and poured cement over.

The best part was the masks. He broke each one, right down the middle, and left them under the docks to rot. A nameless monument to those who ruined his life.

Nothing seemed more fitting for a court who'd taken his name.

* * *

For a year, he did nothing.

He tried rehabilitating the other Talons, but that proved fruitless, forcing him to keep the rest sealed up in their coffins. He considered reintegrating into society, but his blue veins and death like pallor made that difficult. So he watched the city he left behind. Watched it burn.

Gotham had changed while the Court had him on a leash. It was wild, unruly, populated by crime and death. The void the Court left hadn't helped matters, creating a pocket for corrupt officials to live free. It sickened Bruce to the core. The sight of his parent's city in ruins.

The idea didn't hit him until he stumbled upon a robbery near the West end. Until he saved a young couple by burying a few of his knives into a criminal's spine. Until he watched the blood pour out of the man's body and pictured what his life would be like if this was how the confrontation with his parents ended all these years ago.

The idea was infectious. The Court had twisted him, but that didn't mean he was worthless. He could build something new. A new Court. One who preyed on scum and trash. The rats of Gotham's street.

He started slow. Small fry. Robbers. Kidnappers. Then mob bosses, crime families.

He found himself when he went after Falcone's head. Because when the man asked for his name, gun raised, hand trembling, Bruce found the name Talon fade away and become replaced by something else.

"I'm the Owl."

A few years later, standing over the corpse of Tony Zucco, he'd tell the same to the quivering form of Dick Grayson.

* * *

 _Beware the Court of Owls, that watches all the time-"_

 _Ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime._

 _They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed._

 _Speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send the Talon for your head._

 _From this moment on- none of you are safe._


End file.
